by S. A. Beck
Otto had never been to Tucson before, so when they drove into the city, he took a close look around him, wondering if that would be a good place to hide out. He smiled when he realized he was looking at everything in terms of survival. His old life was only a few weeks in the past, and yet he felt as if it had been lived by another person.
The town itself looked a bit like Los Angeles, with long strip malls, low apartment buildings clustered around swimming pools, and lots of single-story houses. The town became more interesting when they got to the old center, with a real trolley and some old adobe houses left over from another era. They ended up at a Mexican restaurant where the walls were decorated with colorful striped blankets and old photos of Mexican ranchers and revolutionaries. Half the diners were speaking Spanish.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” Dr. Yamazaki said as a waitress brought bowls of nachos and salsa. “This is Sonoran food. I hope you like cheese and refried beans.”
“This salsa is awesome,” Otto said, digging into it with some nachos.
“And there’s free refills on that,” she said with a smile, scooping up some hot sauce with her own corn chip. “But save some room for the main course. You’ll love it.”
They sat for a few minutes, waiting, with Otto and Dr. Yamazaki finishing off the bowl of nachos and ordering another, while Grunt and Vivian studied the crowd and Dr. Yuhle enjoyed a margarita. Suddenly Dr. Yamazaki squealed with delight and leaped up to embrace an old man who had entered the restaurant. He had snow-white hair in a thin fringe around his head, and was pale and thin with advanced old age, but he still walked with a steady energy and gave Dr. Yamazaki a wide grin when she embraced him.
“I knew you’d pick this place,” the old man said and laughed.
Dr. Yamazaki turned to address the team. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Dr. Charles Smith. He was my boss during my postdoc here.”
“Watching how your career developed, it made me proud to be there at the beginning.” He sat down next to Dr. Yamazaki.
“Dr. Smith was one of the first experts in generational genetics, tracing the ancestry of human populations. He can help us learn more about—”
Otto raised a hand to silence her. Dr. Yamazaki stared at him for a second, then nodded and stopped talking. Vivian and Grunt gave him approving looks.
Great, Otto thought. I’m getting as paranoid as them. Probably a good idea, though.
Dinner came, and they tucked into massive burritos and enchiladas slathered in melted cheese. Otto had to admit that while being in the Atlantis Allegiance had made him a wanted fugitive and had gotten him shot at more than once, at least he got to eat well.
Dr. Yamazaki ate very well. She downed her own burrito, part of Otto’s, more chips and salsa, and ordered some side dishes too. Otto wondered where she put it all. She ate more than Grunt, while keeping up a constant conversation with her old professor. Most of it was technical stuff that went over his head, but he could tell the older scientist was proud of his former student.
Once they finished their meal, they agreed to go back to Dr. Smith’s house, tucked away in the Tucson Mountains to the west of town. Dr. Smith gave them detailed directions, so they wouldn’t have to turn on their GPS, and concluded by saying, “And if Otto here would be so kind as to drive my car for me, that would be a big help. My night vision isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’d be happy to, Dr. Smith.”
Grunt whispered something in Dr. Yamazaki’s ear. She got an annoyed look and told the professor, “I need to talk to them about something. I’ll ride in our car.”
Dr. Smith nodded and smiled. “Okay, Akiko. See you at the house.”
Smith’s car was a classic old Cadillac from the fifties that looked as though it was worth a fair chunk of change. It had been lovingly preserved and painted a gleaming gold color. Otto drove with care. He decided it would be a bad idea to tell Dr. Smith about some of the recent drives he’d been on. He’d hate to see government agents put bullets through that beauty. Maybe the St. Christopher medal hanging from the rearview mirror would save the paint job.
“Nice car, professor. I bet that paint job looks great at sunset.”
“It does at that. I always wanted a car like this when I was your age but never had the money. By the time I could afford one, I was well into middle age and would have looked like I was trying to recapture my youth. Now I’m ninety-one and don’t care. That’s one of the benefits of growing old that no one tells you about. After a certain point, you stop caring what other people think.”
“That would be nice,” Otto said. He’d been dealing with other people’s opinions all his life.
“You seem rather the odd man out, if you don’t mind my saying so. How do you fit into this picture?”
Otto shook his head and smiled. “That’s complicated.”
“Complicated in the sense that many factors have intervened in order to bring about a chain of events leading to your membership in the group, or complicated in the sense that you don’t want to tell me?”
Otto laughed. The guy was unreal. “A bit of both. Sorry.”
“Sorry for what? You don’t need to apologize to me for not sharing personal information, or is it rude now with everyone on the Internet not to share everything? I must say I’m a bit out of date. Perhaps you joined because of Vivian? She’s quite an attractive girl.”
“Me and Vivian? No. There’s nothing there. I’d never make a play for her.”
“Then you’re a damn fool. If I was your age, I would have gotten a yes or a slap in the face weeks ago.”
Smith nudged him in the ribs with a bony elbow. Otto stared at him incredulously. It always weirded him out when old people talked like that.
“I have a girlfriend.”
“Ah, a gentleman! I’m glad to see they still exist. Turn in here. Yes, up to the house there and park right in front.”
Dr. Smith’s house was set back on a dirt road at the base of the Tucson Mountains just to the west of town. A screen of cacti and agave cut off the view from outside. More plants were scattered around the large yard, and a rambling bungalow stood in the center. Otto parked the car where he was told, and Grunt, who was driving the other car, parked behind them.
Dr. Smith ushered them into a rambling ranch house and invited them into the living room. One wall was entirely glass, and Otto bet that in daylight, the professor had an amazing view of the desert. The other three walls were adorned with Mexican religious paintings of Jesus, Mary, and the saints. Otto strolled around appreciating the art as Dr. Smith closed the curtains on the glass wall.
Dr. Smith came up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Like them?”
“They’re nice, yeah.”
“I’ve been a Roman Catholic all my life. No reason science and religion have to lock horns. Did you know that the percentage of devout scientists is the same as the general population? You don’t hear that in the media much.”
“Is all your religious art Mexican?” Otto asked.
Dr. Smith nodded. “That’s the faith of this region, so that’s what I follow. Who’s to say that the Virgin Mary didn’t look like a sad-eyed Mexican mother like in this icon here? And look at Jesus, he’s a dead ringer for my pool cleaner.”
Otto laughed. Dr. Smith smiled and continued.
“When Jesus comes back, he might work as a pool cleaner. It’s a good humble job, and it would give him ample opportunity to spread the Word to the rich.”
Dr. Yamazaki came up. “Maybe Jesus will come back as a woman. She could be a manicurist, preaching to millionaire ladies over the nail bath.”
Dr. Smith shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s already here working his old job of carpentry on one of these housing developments that are popping up all over the place.”
Dr. Yamazaki wrinkled her nose. “He’d never destroy the desert like that. Anyway, we didn’t come here for one of our endless debates on theology”—both scientists chuckled at the private joke—“we ca
me here to discuss the Atlanteans.”
“Ah yes, your life’s work. Everyone, please sit.” Dr. Smith gestured toward several leather chairs and a big sofa, all set around a coffee table. He turned to Dr. Yamazaki. “Now if I recall, it was your turn to bring the bottle, but considering the circumstances, let’s give you a reprieve until next time.”
Dr. Smith opened a small cabinet next to the sofa and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
“Scapa, aged ten years. A fine Scotch from the Orkney Islands. The ten-year is actually better than the fifteen. Fifteen years ago, they were just restarting the old distillery after a hiatus and were only producing a great whiskey instead of an excellent one. Who wants a shot?”
Otto passed. Dr. Yuhle looked a bit red faced from his margarita and eagerly accepted a double, as did Otto and Dr. Yamazaki. Vivian had a single. Dr. Smith poured himself a generous amount.
The aged professor eased himself into an armchair, took a slow sip of his whiskey, and addressed the gathering.
“Scientific discoveries are generally built upon earlier work by other scientists, and that is the case with Akiko’s—I mean Dr. Yamazaki’s—discovery of the Atlantis gene. And that’s no insult to a fine scientist. Television was developed by several different people simultaneously in both America and England, but it took Philo T. Farnsworth to make it practical. Same with Edison and the lightbulb. A Russian scientist named Alexander Lodygin actually invented it, and Edison made it commercially viable. Genetic researchers had noted that some apparently mixed-race people had an unusual set of genes, but no one before Yamazaki decided to investigate them.”
“Why not?” Vivian asked before taking a sip of her whiskey.
Dr. Smith shrugged. “Racism. Since the genes weren’t appearing in white subjects, it was assumed to be some cluster of genes from Africa or Asia, and no one bothered to investigate. The public likes to think that scientists are rational thinkers and above such things, but it isn’t true. I’ve had to clean up my own mind.”
Otto looked around at all the Hispanic art on the walls. “You don’t seem very racist to me.”
“You think not? When I was your age, I was killing Japanese soldiers on remote islands in the Pacific. Of course I didn’t call them Japanese. I won’t tell you what I called them. I hated them. I cheered when I read the news that the government had put all Japanese-Americans into internment camps. Good thing I had forty years to cool off after the war before Akiko here showed up at my office, asking for a research position.”
“Admitting you’re wrong is a sign of a true intellect,” Dr. Yamazaki said, a serious look on her face.
Dr. Smith gave her a warm smile. “Perhaps. Anyway, we never took that set of genes seriously. You did. I’ve read all the reports you sent me via private courier, and I could see why you went for the cloak-and-dagger approach. The government would just love to get their hands on these people. There are elements in our military that want new weapons no matter what the cost.”
Dr. Smith took a slow look around the room. “And that’s what’s happened, hasn’t it? You’re on the run, aren’t you?”
Dr. Yamazaki blushed and said, “I can’t really talk—”
The old professor silenced her with an upraised hand. “Don’t tell me. It’s best that I don’t know. The real issue is finding out more about the Atlanteans, and I think I can help you with that. Since you sent me your findings, I’ve been running some computer simulations matched with legends about Atlantis to try to pin down their origins. I’ve come up with a few likely locations. If you want to find out more about the Atlanteans, and find more Atlanteans themselves, checking these areas would be a good idea.”
Dr. Yamazaki leaned forward and eagerly asked, “Where do they come from?”
Dr. Smith smiled. “Don’t let your enthusiasm cloud your judgment, Akiko. You know these findings are only probabilities based on insufficient data. But if you and I put our heads together, we might be able to narrow down the choices.”
Smith turned to the others. “We are about to get quite technical, and I’m afraid you’ll be bored listening to us. Feel free to have a look around the house. And you already know where the drinks cabinet is. Help yourself. I have quite a collection of Native American and Mexican art to enjoy, and a good library with more than genetics books. Also, if you’re not afraid of the dark, you’ll find an arroyo just behind the house. If you take a right, going toward the mountains, and follow the arroyo for about a quarter of a mile, you’ll come to a side canyon on your right. Those of you interested in Southwestern lore will appreciate what you see there.”
“What’s there?” Otto asked.
Dr. Smith smiled. “Take a look and you tell me.”
That piqued his curiosity. Otto looked around him. “Anyone up for a night hike?”
Grunt nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
“Use only moonlight to find your way,” Dr. Smith said.
Otto and Grunt looked at each other and shrugged.
“Anything you say,” Otto said.
Vivian got up. “I’m going to make myself a daiquiri. Spending the past week picking sand out of my hair has made me thirsty.”
They headed out of the room. It looked as though Vivian planned to stay and listen to the scientists talk. Otto wondered if she’d actually understand them or if she was being paranoid and wanted to catch every important conversation.
Grunt and Otto went out the back door and into the night. They soon found the back entrance to the yard and skittered down a rocky slope into an arroyo, a dry riverbed that was about ten feet wide. To the east, they could see the lights of Tucson. High above shone the gibbous moon, a few days from being full. To the west, the arroyo led into the darkness. A starry sky silhouetted black peaks. The only sound was the chirping of cicadas and a distant, mournful howl.
Otto stopped. “Was that a coyote?”
“Yeah,” Grunt said, chuckling. “You’re a city boy, I see. Don’t worry. Coyotes are scavengers. They never attack people. I got my nine millimeter just in case.”
They headed down the quiet arroyo, their boots crunching the gritty sand. The moonlight lit up the sand to make a gleaming, bone-white highway through the darkness. Occasionally they had to duck to avoid the branch of a mesquite tree or saguaro cactus, or step around some agave plant sticking out of the sand like a cluster of knives, but otherwise their way was clear. To either side, all was darkness, but Otto could see a large hill or ridge blotting out the stars ahead.
Grunt walked without a sound, confident and at ease. He was right. Otto was a city boy, and except for a few camping trips, he’d never spent much time in the outdoors. The stillness of the desert and the intermittent call of the coyote, which sounded closer now, unnerved him.
Otto spotted an opening in the bushes and cacti to their right. Beyond and above loomed a cliff face about a hundred yards away.
“Is that it?” Otto asked, the silence of the place making him keep his voice at a whisper.
“You got a good eye, Pyro,” Grunt said. “We’ll make a decent soldier out of you yet.”
“I don’t want to be a soldier.”
“That’s too bad, because you already are one.”
The gap led to a smaller side arroyo about three feet wide. Otto imagined that during the big rainstorms Arizona got in August and September, it would be a fast-flowing stream, and the arroyo they had just left would be a raging river. He suspected they dried out as soon as the rain stopped, though. There sure wasn’t any water there then.
The moon lit their way, making the sand of the dry streambed glow a pale white. It shone on the rocks that were closing in on them too, the way getting narrower as they penetrated into a small side canyon.
After a couple of minutes, the way opened up, and they saw that they stood at the dead end of a little box canyon. A cleft in the rock showed where the water fell down, and just to the side of that, Otto saw something that made him stop and stare.
It may have b
een the play of the light on the rock, the mixture of moonbeams and shadow, but the cliff looked like the giant, craggy face of an old Native American.
A long, slow exhalation from Grunt told Otto that he’d seen it too. It was so clear. Two rounded, seamed boulders formed the temples, a full ten feet across, with cavities below for eyes. Smaller rocks made up the cheeks and ears, and a horizontal crack above a sharp, jutting stone gave the impression of a mouth and chin.
For a minute, neither of them said anything. When Otto finally spoke, it was in hushed tones, as if he was in church.
“You should show this to Jim Running Horse.”
“He knows about it,” Grunt said, not taking his eyes off the beautiful image the moon and rocks had made.
“He told you about this?”
“No, but he knows about it.”
They stared at it for a while longer. The vision sent chills up Otto’s spine, not from fear but from an eerie realization that the history of the region had somehow been naturally inscribed onto the rock. It seemed unreal, but there it was.
“I once saw a book,” Grunt said, keeping his voice low, “of ancient sacred sites in England. You know, stone circles and stuff like that. All pretty cool, but what was really interesting were some photos of trees and naturally shaped rocks near these sites. So many of them had animal or human shapes. There was this one tree that was a dead ringer for a druid’s face. You could see the eyes and beard and hair and everything.”
“Just like this.”
“When old ways last long enough, they get imprinted on the land,” Grunt said.
Otto nodded. It was just what he’d been figuring. He thought for a moment and then said, “Dr. Yamazaki says the Atlanteans have been around for thousands of years and spread all over the earth. Why haven’t they been inscribed on the land?”